Read Online A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini - Free Book Online
Authors: Khaled Hosseini
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different rooms and its smell of cigarette smoke, with its unfamiliar cupboards full of unfamiliar
utensils, its heavy, dark green curtains, and a ceiling she knew she could not reach. The space of it suffocated Mariam. Pangs
of longing bore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her old life.
Then she was crying.
“What’s this crying about?” Rasheed said crossly. He reached into the pocket of his pants, uncurled Mariam’s fingers, and
pushed a handkerchief into her palm. He lit himself a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He watched as Mariam pressed
the handkerchief to her eyes.
“Done?”
Mariam nodded.
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He took her by the elbow then and led her to the living-room window.
“This window looks north,” he said, tapping the glass with the crooked nail of his index finger. “That’s the Asmai mountain
directly in front of us—see?—and, to the left, is the Ali Abad mountain. The university is at the foot of it. Behind us, east,
you can’t see from here, is the Shir Darwaza mountain. Every day, at noon, they shoot a cannon from it. Stop your crying,
now. I mean it.”
Mariam dabbed at her eyes.
“That’s one thing I can’t stand,” he said, scowling, “the sound of a woman crying. I’m sorry. I have no patience for it.”
“I want to go home,” Mariam said.
Rasheed sighed irritably. A puff of his smoky breath hit Mariam’s face. “I won’t take that personally. This time.”
Again, he took her by the elbow, and led her upstairs.
There was a narrow, dimly lit hallway there and two bedrooms. The door to the bigger one was ajar. Through it Mariam could
see that it, like the rest of the house, was sparsely furnished: bed in the corner, with a brown blanket and a pillow, a closet,
a dresser. The walls were bare except for a small mirror. Rasheed closed the door.
“This is my room.”
He said she could take the guest room. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m accustomed to sleeping alone.”
Mariam didn’t tell him how relieved she was, at least about this.
The room that was to be Mariam’s was much smaller than the room she’d stayed in at Jalil’s house. It had a bed, an old, gray-brown
dresser, a small closet. The window looked into the yard and, beyond that, the street below. Rasheed put her suitcase in a
corner.
Mariam sat on the bed.
“You didn’t notice,” he said. He was standing in the doorway, stooping a little to fit. “Look on the windowsill. You know
what kind they are? I put them there before leaving for Herat.”
Only now Mariam saw a basket on the sill. White tuberoses spilled from its sides.
“You like them? They please you?”
“Yes.”
“You can thank me then.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry. Tashakor— ”
“You’re shaking. Maybe I scare you. Do I scare you? Are you frightened of me?”
Mariam was not looking at him, but she could hear something slyly playful in these questions, like a needling. She quickly
shook her head in what she recognized as her first lie in their marriage.
“No? That’s good, then. Good for you. Well, this is your home now. You’re going to like it here. You’ll see. Did I tell you
we have electricity? Most days and every night?”
He made as if to leave. At the door, he paused, took a long drag, crinkled his eyes against the smoke. Mariam thought he was
going to say something. But he didn’t. He closed the door, left her alone with her suitcase and her flowers.
10.
T he first few days, Mariam hardly left her room. She was awakened every dawn for prayer by the distant cry of azan , after which she crawled back into bed. She was still in bed when she heard Rasheed in the bathroom, washing up, when he
came into her room to check on her before he went to his shop. From her window, she watched him in the yard, securing his
lunch in the rear carrier pack of his bicycle, then walking his bicycle across the yard and into the street. She watched him
pedal away,
utensils, its heavy, dark green curtains, and a ceiling she knew she could not reach. The space of it suffocated Mariam. Pangs
of longing bore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her old life.
Then she was crying.
“What’s this crying about?” Rasheed said crossly. He reached into the pocket of his pants, uncurled Mariam’s fingers, and
pushed a handkerchief into her palm. He lit himself a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He watched as Mariam pressed
the handkerchief to her eyes.
“Done?”
Mariam nodded.
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He took her by the elbow then and led her to the living-room window.
“This window looks north,” he said, tapping the glass with the crooked nail of his index finger. “That’s the Asmai mountain
directly in front of us—see?—and, to the left, is the Ali Abad mountain. The university is at the foot of it. Behind us, east,
you can’t see from here, is the Shir Darwaza mountain. Every day, at noon, they shoot a cannon from it. Stop your crying,
now. I mean it.”
Mariam dabbed at her eyes.
“That’s one thing I can’t stand,” he said, scowling, “the sound of a woman crying. I’m sorry. I have no patience for it.”
“I want to go home,” Mariam said.
Rasheed sighed irritably. A puff of his smoky breath hit Mariam’s face. “I won’t take that personally. This time.”
Again, he took her by the elbow, and led her upstairs.
There was a narrow, dimly lit hallway there and two bedrooms. The door to the bigger one was ajar. Through it Mariam could
see that it, like the rest of the house, was sparsely furnished: bed in the corner, with a brown blanket and a pillow, a closet,
a dresser. The walls were bare except for a small mirror. Rasheed closed the door.
“This is my room.”
He said she could take the guest room. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m accustomed to sleeping alone.”
Mariam didn’t tell him how relieved she was, at least about this.
The room that was to be Mariam’s was much smaller than the room she’d stayed in at Jalil’s house. It had a bed, an old, gray-brown
dresser, a small closet. The window looked into the yard and, beyond that, the street below. Rasheed put her suitcase in a
corner.
Mariam sat on the bed.
“You didn’t notice,” he said. He was standing in the doorway, stooping a little to fit. “Look on the windowsill. You know
what kind they are? I put them there before leaving for Herat.”
Only now Mariam saw a basket on the sill. White tuberoses spilled from its sides.
“You like them? They please you?”
“Yes.”
“You can thank me then.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry. Tashakor— ”
“You’re shaking. Maybe I scare you. Do I scare you? Are you frightened of me?”
Mariam was not looking at him, but she could hear something slyly playful in these questions, like a needling. She quickly
shook her head in what she recognized as her first lie in their marriage.
“No? That’s good, then. Good for you. Well, this is your home now. You’re going to like it here. You’ll see. Did I tell you
we have electricity? Most days and every night?”
He made as if to leave. At the door, he paused, took a long drag, crinkled his eyes against the smoke. Mariam thought he was
going to say something. But he didn’t. He closed the door, left her alone with her suitcase and her flowers.
10.
T he first few days, Mariam hardly left her room. She was awakened every dawn for prayer by the distant cry of azan , after which she crawled back into bed. She was still in bed when she heard Rasheed in the bathroom, washing up, when he
came into her room to check on her before he went to his shop. From her window, she watched him in the yard, securing his
lunch in the rear carrier pack of his bicycle, then walking his bicycle across the yard and into the street. She watched him
pedal away,
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